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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26688214">I Shall Rise and You Shall Not</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/treefrogie84/pseuds/treefrogie84'>treefrogie84</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Old Guard Bingo [9]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Old Guard (Movie 2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Christopher Marlowe Quotations, Dubious Historical Accuracy, Gen, Marlowe dies in a bar brawl, Movie Night, OPINIONS on Shakespeare adapations, Shakespeare Quotations, Team Bonding</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 10:33:48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,666</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26688214</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/treefrogie84/pseuds/treefrogie84</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s been a long week, American politics are bullshit, and while she has her nazi punching permit, she hasn’t figured out how to punch substantial portions of the internet yet. Or even the cops who encourage this bullshit to happen [all cops]. So she wants to retreat to something familiar and queer, there’s no harm in that.</p><p>Or at least, there wasn’t, until she remembered she was watching it with three people who saw the <em>original</em> production, and one who would have if she hadn’t, ya know, been drowning in the English Channel at the time.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Minor or Background Relationship(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Old Guard Bingo [9]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1901185</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>53</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>The Old Guard Bingo</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>I Shall Rise and You Shall Not</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I have precisely zero opinions about why Kit Marlowe died in May 1593. He did, either for being a catholic or an atheist or a spy or for not paying his bills. It doesn't matter, really. (I do have opinions on who wrote Shakespeare's plays-- Shakespeare himself-- and preferred adaptations.)</p><p>No beta, we die like immortals.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Nile is in a Mood, ignoring Booker and Andy’s griping about watching inferior productions, and throwing the <a href="https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b07dx7lt">Russel T version of <em>Midsummer</em></a> on the screen for movie night. She’s willing to admit there are more nuanced productions of the play, but Shakespeare is Shakespeare and she just wants to watch some pretty language and TotallyNot!Nazi’s getting their asses handed to them by fairies.</p><p>(It’s been a long week, American politics are bullshit, and while she has her nazi punching permit, she hasn’t figured out how to punch substantial portions of the internet yet. Or even the cops who encourage this bullshit to happen [all cops]. So she wants to retreat to something familiar and queer, there’s no harm in that.</p><p>Or at least, there wasn’t, until she remembered she was watching it with three people who saw the <em>original</em> production, and one who would have if she hadn’t, ya know, been drowning in the English Channel at the time.)</p><p>Andy hasn’t said much, just grins at the sex jokes and otherwise buries her face in Quynh’s hair, but Joe and Nicky will. Not. Shut. Up.</p><p>“Remember that twerp they had playing Hermia? That kid was such a jerk.” Joe is doing it on purpose, Nile knows he is, but at the same time…</p><p>“Wait, you knew the <em>actors</em>?”</p><p>Nicky shrugs from his spot between Joe’s legs. “They were professionals, but most of them needed other jobs to make rent. Things haven’t changed that much.” He frowns, thinking for a moment. “I think he was also working as a messenger for some trading house or another.”</p><p>“One of the coffee shops,” Joe says. “Running news of which ships had arrived.”</p><p>Nicky nods, tapping his fingers against Joe’s knees. “The boy was convinced he was going to be the next great playwright or the Queen’s poet. Spent hours reciting his drivel to anyone within earshot.”</p><p>“He was… what, fourteen? Maybe?” Nile points out. “Teenagers are dramatic. I can’t imagine a kid who grew up in Shakespeare’s theatre is going to be <em>less</em> of a drama llama.”</p><p>Andy snorts. “Nicky is just irritated that Shakespeare is the one who’s famous.”</p><p>“Kit was the better author! His translations—“</p><p>“Yes, Nico, we know,” Booker drawls. “Marlowe’s translations and works were the height of English writing at the time, inferior only to your husband’s verses.” He rolls his eyes before turning back to the screen.</p><p>“Kit Marlowe? Didn’t he die in a bar brawl or something?”</p><p>“He was <em>assassinated</em> by the <em>Queen</em> because he was a <em>Catholic</em>,” Nicky starts, and this is definitely, for sure, the first time Nile has seen him get this worked up over something from that long ago. Reaching over, she pauses the movie— Helena and Hermia’s cat fight will still be around later, Nicky’s overly sharing mood might not— and leans back to listen.</p>
<hr/><p>
  <em>Come live with me and be my love,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And we will all the pleasures prove</em>
</p><p>
  <em>That hills and vallies, dales and fields,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Woods or steepy mountain yields.</em>
</p><p>Kit falls back on his couch, still reciting. It’s Nicky’s favorite poem of his, enough to put up with smoky taverns on the southern side of the river, tucked between the whorehouses and bear pits.</p><p>Leaning over, he refills Kit’s mug from the pitcher of beer left on the table, gesturing towards Joseph to see if he’s ready. He shakes his head, eyes bright with beer and smoke. Nicky nods, leaning against Joseph’s steady side while he listens to Kit.</p><p>“Should I have kept the original rhythm?” Kit asks, drumming his fingers in pattern with the poem’s beat.</p><p>It does sound odd to Nicky’s ear, but he likes it, likes the pastoral image with the steady heartbeat. “No, this is… this is good. The heartbeat of the lovers and their sheep.”</p><p>Kit grins and takes another swig of beer. “I knew you would understand. Spending all the time you do listening to Joseph’s verses.”</p><p>“Doggerel,” Joseph proclaims. “At least, that in English.” They’ve made no secret that neither of them speak English natively, although London being the city it is, no one really cares as long as they can make themselves understood.</p><p>The group of playwrights and poets they’ve fallen in with are more interested in their first hand descriptions of Italy and Sicily and Malta anyway.</p><p>Nicky pinches Joseph’s hip. “Your poems are beautiful no matter the language.”</p><p>Kit laughs brightly.</p><p>The door to the tavern, closed against the persistent rain, bangs open and two men hunch in. They’re better armed than most here, long knives that will just barely be shorter than the definition of a sword for walking the streets Nicky guesses, but they say nothing as they shake the wet from their shoulders. The tavern picks back up with barely another glance until everyone is cheerfully (or not cheerfully) shouting at each other again.</p><p>Joseph stays tense beside him, and Kit suddenly stops talking as loudly. He goes quiet, still trying to work out his next poem— Nicky listens and responds, but their trio is focused on the men at the bar. Nicky doesn’t know why they’re such a disruption, but they are, and they— all three of them— try to avoid disruptions.</p><p>“Let’s go,” Nicky says quietly, gesturing towards the back stair. “We can continue this in our rooms.”</p><p>He and Joseph are renting a small room at the top of the tavern. Barely big enough for a bed, couch, and table, but it’s large enough for them, considering they rarely do more than sleep here. More importantly, it’s cheap, even for London.</p><p>Kit is… thoroughly soused. Nicky hadn’t noticed how much he’d been drinking. Sliding under his arm, Nicky practically carries him to the staircase, Joseph leading the way.</p><p>The men follow them.</p><p>“He owes us money,” the taller one says at the base of the stairs. “Step aside.”</p><p>Kit has always been scrupulous about paying his bills. Nicky meets Joe’s eyes and tilts his head. Joe nods slightly, turning around to block the staircase. “Come back tomorrow, gentlemen,” he says, adopting a Spanish accent. “Mr. Marlowe will discuss it with you then.”</p><p>The shorter one scoffs, trying to push past Joe. “Fucking recusants, always sticking together. We have orders, see, and Marlowe will be coming with us.”</p><p>Depositing Kit on the stairs behind him, Nicky turns around. “I thought he owed you money.” Without thinking about it, he matches Joe’s accent</p><p>The lights are even dimmer here than in the main room, but he can finally see what’s been bothering him about these two. Yes, they’re dressed as common thugs, but the metal of their knives shines too brightly, polished brass gleaming from doublets. These are no more common muscle than he and Joe are. The only question is who their master is.</p><p>And then it becomes a moot point, because the tall one pulls his knife and abruptly stabs Joe.</p><p>Nicky shouts and pulls his own knife. Joe stays slumped against the wall as the two of them start up the stairs. His heart in his throat, Nicky does his best, disarming one of the men, sending his long knife clattering back to the ground, landing near Joe.</p><p>The narrowness of the stairs hampers Nicky as much as it helps. He can’t get around them, can’t do much besides keep them tangled up with each other. And Joe is still slumped at the foot, still not getting up, still bleeding on the floor and what if this is his last death—</p><p>The shorter one gets around him somehow, so he’s trapped between them. Taking a deep breath, Nicky kicks out at taller one, only a couple stairs beneath him. The kick connects, lands squarely in the center of the man’s chest, but he grabs Nicky’s leg as he falls backward.</p><p>They both tumble down the stairs, landing in a heap on top of Joe. Nicky is bleeding, he’s not sure from where, but there’s a line of fire slowly healing across his back. The assassin has broken his neck in the fall, wedged awkwardly between the wall and the ground, facing a direction that human necks aren’t meant for.</p><p>The shorter one mutters something about recusants and Spanish spies, plunging his knife into Kit’s chest before Nicky can get his breath back.</p><p>Then he’s gone, up the stairs and through an open window.</p><p>The blood from Kit spills slowly down the stairs like a slow motion wave. Nicky pushes himself up to kneel next to Joe, reaching for his chest, praying, hoping…</p><p>There. A heartbeat, speeding under his touch.</p><p>Joe jerks his arm out from under the dead man, wrapping his hand around Nicky’s and meeting his eyes. “<em>Habibi</em>?”</p><p>Nicky shakes his head. Not now. “The commotion will have been heard. We need to go.”</p><p>Joe nods, glancing up the stairs towards their room. “Oh. Yes, we should go.”</p>
<hr/><p>“So both stories are true?” Nile asks into the silence. “Owing someone money and the Catholic?”</p><p>Joe shrugs, wrapping an arm around Nicky’s shoulders and squeezing. “We didn’t stick around to find out exactly who sent them. It could have been the privy council or it could have been an angry tavern keeper. It was two years before we spent much time on that side of the Thames again.”</p><p>Nicky grumbles, but doesn’t actually speak up.</p><p>“Wow,” Nile says after a minute. “I have… so many questions.”</p><p>“Another time,” Andy calls from the other couch, Booker echoing her. “I want to see these assholes get their comeuppance.” She points at the screen, where Hermia and Helena are still paused.</p><p>Nile snorts and nods. “Sure. But eventually, you’re going to have to let me ask those questions.” Settling back onto the couch, she picks up the remote and presses play.</p><p>
  <em>Call you me fair? That fair again unsay.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Demetrius loves your fair. O happy fair!</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Your eyes are lode-stars and your tongue’s sweet air</em>
</p><p>
  <em>More tuneable than lark to shepherd’s ear,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>When wheat is green, when hawthorn buds appear.</em>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Quotations are from Marlowe's <em> <a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44675/the-passionate-shepherd-to-his-love">The Passionate Shepherd To His Love</a></em> and Shakespeare's Midsummer Night's Dream, Act 1, scene 1.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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